Amores II.9

O Cupid, never enough roused in my behalf, O boy lodged in my heart and doing naught for me — why dost harm me, the soldier who have never left the standards, and why am I wounded in my own camp? Why doth thy torch burn friends, and thy bow transfix them? 'Twere greater glory to vanquish them that oppose.

What? did not the hero of Haemonia afterward help with the healer's art him he had smit and pierced with the spear? The huntsman pursues the quarry that flies; what he has taken he leaves behind, and ever strains to the prey ahead. We, a people who have surrendered to thee, feel the weight of thy weapons; with the foe that resists, thy hand is slow to move. Of what avail to blunt thy barbed arrows on naked bones? — for love is leaving my bones naked. So many men there are without love, without love so many maids! — there is thy field for great and glorious triumph. Rome, had she not employed her powers against the boundless world, would be filled even now with straw-thatched huts.

The tired-out soldier is let retire to the acres he received; the l'ace-horse free from the course is sent to the pastures; and the long docks receive to cover the drawn-up ship of pine, and the harmless foil a is claimed when the sword has been laid aside. I, too, who have served so oft in the wars of woman's love — 'twere time, my labours o'er, I lived in peace.

"Lay aside thy loves," should some god say to me,. ff and live without them, I would pray him not ask it — even so sweet an evil are the fair. When I have grown weary of love and the ardour of my heart has cooled, my soul is somehow seized upon by a whirlwind of wretchedness. As a hard-mouthed horse bears headlong in flight the master who strives in vain to hold him back with foaming bit; as on a sudden, when land is now all but gained and the keel is touching the haven, the wind sweeps it out to the deep — so am I oft carried away again by the veering gale of Cupid, and bright Love takes up again the weapons I know well.

Transfix me, child! I have laid aside my defences, and stand unarmed before thee; here is a place for thy powers, here thy right hand may strike; hither, as if bid, thine arrows come now of their own accord — they scarcely know their quiver because of me! Unhappy he who can rest the whole night through, and calls his slumbers a great boon! Fool! what else is sleep but the image of chill death? As for repose, the fates will give long time for that. For me — let only the words of a deceiving sweetheart lure me on; mere hoping, will surely bring me great delight. And let her now speak winningly, and now still chide; let me oft enjoy my lady-love, oft go repulsed away.

That Mars is inconstant, thou, his step-son Cupid, art the cause; thy step-sire wields doubtful arms, and after thy example. Thou art light, more quick to feel the wind than thine own wings, and dost grant and deny thy joys with a faith that is never sure. Yet, none the less, if thou and thy beautiful mother will heed my prayer, come, set up your thrones in my heart and reign there for evermore! Let the fair, too, be your subjects in that realm — a fickle, fickle throng! thus will you be adored by peoples twain.